


Marik & Bakura's Fantastic Horror Road Trip

by Mayamali



Category: Yu-Gi-Oh!
Genre: Bloodplay, Knifeplay, M/M, Mild S&M, Minor Violence, NSFW
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-20
Updated: 2015-09-24
Packaged: 2018-04-15 15:56:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,550
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4612632
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mayamali/pseuds/Mayamali
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bakura had anticipated an impromptu road trip with a stolen car, no radio service, and no food would have gone south eventually. What he didn't anticipate was that it would go south so quickly. Psycho(trash)shipping, which means mild violence, knife fetishization, a lliiiiitle bit of S&M, and Marik's hot, fine ass. Slight AU, NSFW.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is the ultimate trash roadtrip fic written because I have no self-control and it's a guilty pleasure. Not beta-read or anything. You've been warned.

The way Bakura was staring at Marik was much like a lion watching a gazelle moments before pouncing. His long, admittedly fluffy hair was tied back loosely while he held a still-steaming cup of coffee, slouched forward in the dining room chair. A vague memory of a woman scolding him to sit upright came unbidden – not his. He took a very controlled sip of coffee, taking no bother in how it burned his tongue. "Come again?"  
"Road trip," Marik repeated with a frown, watching Bakura's face. He was smarter than he looked; he'd learned that Bakura was a rubber band held taut, ready to snap forward at any moment. "In  _lesser_  terms. My Ghouls learned of something that could aid in the destruction of the Pharaoh. The issue is that it's not here. So we have to go get it."  
"And just what is 'it'?" Bakura asked, setting the mug down on the table, eye twitching involuntarily.

Marik leaned opposite of Bakura, moving backwards as he moved forwards, and crossed his arms. "...Alright, that's the secondary issue. No one can get in to tell us what it is. Which is why I'm asking you to come with."  
"You think I'm some walking  _deus ex machina_ , is that it?"  
"You're powerful, in ways that I'm not."  
Bakura grinned at that, which made Marik shift just so subtly in his chair. He was well aware that even someone like Marik Ishtar was unnerved by him sometimes, which was all very well and fine with him. "I was wondering when you'd admit it."

"Shut up. Are you coming?"

The car that had been 'acquired' for them was a cherry red convertible number, definitely not of the 21st century and definitely not inconspicuous. After a good amount of grooming on both parts, they headed out with the hood drawn back. Unlike the movies, however, the grim reality was that this was not very friendly towards longer hairstyles, as the way their hair whipped around guaranteed much swearing at hairbrushes later.  
Radio stations out here were non-existent, which was fine with Bakura; he had always preferred to travel in silence. There was a certain comfort in watching the desert landscape race by, with the occasional dust storm in the distance, that he gladly indulged, even if it brought forth a strange sense of longing that he easily suppressed.  
"... and you're not even listening."

He blinked, tipping his sunglasses down as he turned to look at Marik, who had that annoying expression of indignation. How dare someone not bow to his whims, after all. "Oh, you were talking?"  
Marik scoffed, turning the ignition off and unclasping his seatbelt. "I'm going in for water. One of my Ghouls should be here to help shed some light on this little adventure, too. Don't cause trouble." With that, he patted the door and headed into the gas station that they had stopped at while Bakura was lost in the landscape, slipping his keys into his back pocket.  
He glanced towards the station after a few minutes of being absent of company to stare at Marik's informant, following him until he could see through the glass door that Marik was in a very intense conversation with the clerk. He rolled his eyes and turned back to the expanse, trying to determine what kind of cactus was in the distance.

Another minute later, he glanced back, and blinked at the massive streak of blood across the windows. Now  _that_  had definitely not been there before. Slowly, he unclasped his own seatbelt and jumped out of his seat, taking a moment to open the glovebox and retrieve a dagger before beginning the approach.  
There was no sign of life in the station, but the hairs on Bakura's neck were standing straight up. Something was definitely not right, but the nature of it was both familiar and foreign – an intense vortex of darkness with the station as the epicenter. Slowly, he placed his hand on the glass.

Which was when Marik came crashing through the door.

Bakura grunted as he was sent careening across the sand, Marik straddling his hips with an arm pressed against his neck and something sharp pressing into his ribs. He clawed at Marik's arm, pressing his nails deep into bronzed flesh, and looked up, one eye shut tight in pain.  
The coy, Cheshire Cat-esque smile that sat on Marik's face told him everything he needed to know. The darkness he'd felt was right in front of him now, on top of him. "Were you going to do something with that?" Bakura's grip tightened around the dagger still in his hand. "Oh, don't grab it now, it's no good." His voice was deep, a perverted parody of itself, a hint of turbulence just barely stifled underneath its smoothness.

"Marik –"

"Mm." Marik cut him off with a little more pressure to Bakura's throat; he started to see black spots in a sky that was growing brighter and brighter white. "Sort of, but better." He relaxed his grip on Bakura's throat and leaned forward so that their noses were almost touching, and Bakura looked into his eyes to see nothing. A small amount of amusement, sure, but nothing more than that, even as Bakura shifted underneath him and hissed as the blade pressed against his side became a more insistent pain.  
"What's your damage, then?" Bakura scoffed, opening both eyes again and narrowing them critically.  
"I told you. Marik, but better." He licked his lips thoughtfully, cocking his head to the side. "Now the question is, what does someone like me do with someone like y-"

Bakura acted then, bringing the hilt of the dagger up against Marik's skull, just forcefully enough to rock him to the side. With enough momentum, Bakura  _pushed_ , rolling the both of them over so that he was on top now, pressing the blade of the dagger to Marik's throat.  
Marik turned his head slowly to look back up, his lips spreading into a wide grin, one that rivaled one of Bakura's in its malevolence. Bakura's eye twitched again, and he grimaced upon the burning realization that, whatever Marik had been holding to his side, it was now firmly stabbed into him. "Ooh. You're good."

"Marik," Bakura said, taking a slow breath now that he was in control of the situation and immediately regretting it with the sharp pain that went through him. "Had a few secrets, did you?"  
"Mm. Only as much as anyone else." Marik shrugged, seemingly uncaring that the blade dug deeper against his skin every time he moved, drawing a trickle of blood. "Shamefully, the main personality has an anger problem."  
Bakura nodded slowly, a wry smile coming to his lips. "Multiple personalities. So is it just you I have to concern myself with?"  
"Yes – but you  _are_  concerned."  
"Only since you stabbed me." He promptly wished he hadn't said that, as the wide grin on Marik's face warned him of what was coming next mere seconds before whatever was intruding his ribs was promptly pulled out, making him groan in pain – and his grip faltered.

But Marik didn't use the advantage to his own gain. "I do remember, however, a certain deal you made with him. Me. But instead of wasting time taking a roundabout way, why not just get to the heart of it?" He leaned forward, smile twitching as the blade against his neck dug even deeper still. "Let's just kill the Pharaoh."  
Bakura raised an eyebrow, re-adjusting his grip on the situation... although this was feeling less like a battle and more like a negotiation. "And how, exactly, do you propose that?"  
"I figured slicing him open would suffice."

Something in Bakura's heart stirred. He pushed it back down and scoffed. "We'd have to get to him, first."  
"You say that like it'd be  _hard_. Which it shouldn't be, unless you're a lot less competent than you seem."  
There was silence as they stared at each other for a long moment. Finally, Bakura scoffed, pulling the knife away and standing up, a hand reflexively coming to hold the stab wound on his side. Which was when he noticed Marik's weapon – the Millennium Rod. Only the bottom had been screwed off, revealing a dagger inside. "Clever."

Marik stood with an uneasily casual pace, rubbing his throat and wiping away the blood from his own injury, examining it with an almost amused expression. "You agree?"  
Bakura furrowed his brow, blowing hair out of his face as he regarded the new Marik before him. On the one hand, he could easily overpower Bakura with brute force if he really wanted to, and the fact he'd attacked Bakura at all despite knowing their arrangement was not very comforting. On the other hand... he knew his way around a blade. And more importantly, he wanted in on cutting to the chase and just killing the Pharaoh outright.  
"...Tch." Bakura shook his head, running his free hand through his hair and getting it tangled on a snare almost immediately. "Let me fix this first."  
Marik's grin was of Cheshire Cat proportions as Bakura stumbled to the car, fished out the first aid, and retreated to the bathroom. He gave himself a quick glance in the mirror and shook his head. What the hell had he just agreed to?


	2. Chapter 2

"Turn on some music. I'm bored."

The first problem had presented itself very quickly – this alternate personality of Marik's was just as insufferable as the original in his own special way. His voice had taken on a rather childish tone as he sat very comfortably in the passenger's seat, idly picking his nails with the dagger in the Millennium Rod.  
Bakura tightened his grip on the steering wheel. "Feel free to sort through those cassettes, because that's all we've got."  
He didn't look at Marik, but he could tell that he was being stared at before, eventually, he heard a dramatic sigh and saw a mass of black and purple shift beside him to find the cassettes.

Their new mission was to find their way to the airport, which was becoming more of a challenge than he'd expected. They'd neglected to bring a road map with them, seeing as they'd only been planning to drive out a few hours from their base instead of a full cross-country road trip, so on the rare occasion they found a sign (that, thankfully, Marik could still translate), it told them roughly jack shit about where they were in the scheme of where they wanted to go.

Also, Bakura was fairly certain he was becoming sunburned. His skin was taking on a very particular shellfish shade of red.

Bakura had to deal with Marik shifting through three different tapes before he settled on one he liked, some kind of classical rock album. "Does that sign say anything about pit stops or hotels, by any chance?"  
He took a quick glance towards his passenger, noting the faint golden shimmer in the shape of an eye on his forehead as he peered at the upcoming exit sign.  _"..._ There's a  _motel_. Why?"  
"We need to stop for the night."  
A snort. "Why?"  
"Because this car will overheat and we'll be stuck in the middle of nowhere if we don't." After a slight pause, he hit the blinker and moved onto the exit, glancing at Marik again. "Which would be a pain in my ass."  
Marik snickered, but said nothing else as they started into a small little town. The sun was beginning to set, casting a pastel shade across the sky. Of course, at the moment, Bakura wanted nothing to do with the sky in any way, shape, or form for the day, with how angry red his skin was.

With a clever use of mind control, they got two separate rooms for free for the night. However, they weren't so lucky with the supplies that Bakura had to grab from the nearby general store. Fortunately, the clerk was very understanding about giving it away to someone who was very clearly suffering. The fact he scrambled for the phone to call the police on the strange white-haired man that had held him at knife-point as Bakura left was just a minor detail.  
As disturbing as this new Marik was during the car ride, Bakura was even more unsettled as night fell and everything was quiet. At the base Marik had invited him to stay in, he knew whatever it was that the tomb keeper was doing; usually plotting some new strategy until the late hours of the evening, and then mumbling incoherently as he slept.

This Marik, though... the silence disturbed Bakura. And so before he laid his body down to rest for the night, he made sure everything was packed and ready to go in the off-chance this small motel was going to become a slaughterhouse overnight.

Bakura's dreams were usually nothing special, nothing worth remembering or dwelling over. But lately, with the definitive return of the Pharaoh, they had been coming. Snippets of a past that was only partly his; the heat of the fires and the desert air, and the sounds of people shouting in dead tongues, and the smell – he didn't dare dwell on the faint glimmers of smell he could recall – he saw it through his own eyes, and someone else's.

Part of him wondered if Ryou could see it, too. And another part of him wondered if that was  _all_  that Ryou could see.

He woke up to an engine backfiring on a nearby street, body damp with a sweat that he could not completely attribute to the heat. The cold water of the sink was a welcome reprieve as he pondered what his next move was. It probably wasn't a smart idea to abandon Marik, especially with his new-found love of stabbing things, but he wasn't necessarily keen on seeing what one night could have done to him.  
After a good fifteen minutes of sitting on the bed with nothing but a faint sound of static from the next room, it became apparent that Marik was not going to come to him. While Bakura was mildly pleased that he wouldn't have to open his door to a psychopath, the memory of the day before and the still-aching wound on his side still lingered in his mind.

Marik's door was unlocked; either he hadn't even bothered to lock it overnight, or he knew Bakura would get curious. With a sigh, Bakura nudged it open, peered around the room, and stilled his breath when he saw Marik's naked back.

Scratch that – not completely naked. He was wearing briefs, leaned over the bed as he pulled his pants on. But Bakura barely registered that, eyes fixated on the dark, elaborate carvings on his back. He'd seen glimpses of them in passing before, but said nothing of it lest he got chastised with a dirty look. Dark scar tissue in symbols he could almost recognize, the intricacy awesome.  
His gaze flickered upwards when he saw the carving turn away from him, and he met Marik's eyes. Still dull and unfamiliar. "Taking your sweet time, I see."  
Marik shrugged, taking the shirt off the bed and slipping it over his head, yanking it down to fit snugly over his chest. "I half expected you to have left."  
"You take me for an idiot." Bakura opened the door a little more now that his companion was dressed, watching him idly as he arranged golden bangles along his arms before being taken with the sight of his own hand. Still with a healed impalement scar, and still tinged an painful-looking pink. "I'll be in the car. Try not to stab anything."

"No promises," were the encouraging words Marik left him with as he slipped back outside to his own room.

The Eagles droned quietly underneath the sound of whipping wind; they'd brought the hood of the car back up last night, and fortunately, Marik still maintained a sense of understanding through Bakura's side-eyed glares that for now, the hood should  _stay_  up.  
"How does this work?" Bakura finally asked after a good half an hour on the road, going far too much over the speed limit to the point that any desert trees and cacti were smudges as they passed. "You just... come out whenever you feel like it, is that it?"  
"Only if he gets angry." Marik shrugged, perusing a map that they had 'acquired' from the motel before leaving.

"And when do you leave?"

The silent pause between Bakura's question and Marik's answer lasted far too long than any pause should, and his knuckles went white around the steering wheel. "Why? Tired of my company,  _Bakura_?"  
He wished Marik wouldn't say his name. It sounded wrong now. He glanced up at a coming sign – he'd learned enough Arabic to read that Cairo was only about 250 miles away. He pushed the gas pedal down even more. "Well, it'd be a shame if you just up and disappeared once we actually find the Pharaoh now, wouldn't it?"

Marik didn't reply for a good full minute, but every quick glance that Bakura took from the corner of his eye showed that he wasn't in any obvious danger; Marik was simply... staring, regarding him with a stillness that made his adrenaline start to rise. "You won't need -"  
Bakura looked back to the road and blinked before swearing loudly and jerking the steering wheel to the side, sending Marik thumping against the dashboard as they swerved out of the wrong lane and off-road. A car horn blared past them as the tires lost traction in the sand; the car careened into a balsam tree, and Bakura's forehead careened into the steering wheel.

There was darkness swirling before him, faint whispers twisting around his head until they began to grow louder and louder. Whispers became cries, became wails, became screams –  
Became a car horn blaring in his ears. Accompanied by something wet dragging across his forehead, he awoke with a gasp, eyes screwed shut with pain and the burning of the sun beaming down on him. But the light was obscured, and he felt a hand brush his hair away from his face before he felt something wet again, this time drawing slowly up his cheek. It stung, and he moaned quietly before forcing his eyes opened.

This was familiar. Marik was sat on top of him again, pulling his face away and licking his lips as Bakura fully came to. "There you are. You were mumbling. And bleeding. I was taking care of that last thing."  
Bakura blinked, staring up at Marik's grin for a long moment before the machinery of his brain finally started to creak into motion. "...Were you  _licking_  me?"  
"You were bleeding," Marik repeated, drawing his finger horizontally along Bakura's forehead and then poking his cheek.  
"So you  _licked_  me."

Marik shrugged. Bakura groaned and pushed him off effortlessly, leaving him to tumble in a mess of purple and black and tan into the sand. The car was surprisingly well-off, with just a major dent in the fender and the blazing horn. The real issue was the billowing smoke pouring out from underneath the hood. Bakura swore again, stumbling to his feet and drawing his hands through his hair.  
He heard a shout from the road, and turned to see the car he had so narrowly avoided before parked, the driver approaching with a cell phone glued to his ear. Bakura didn't even have to look at Marik to see the grin slowly spreading on his face before he firmly said "No", and started to stumble forward. He didn't make it very far, collapsing to his knees as he lost his footing in the sand.

This day had certainly taken a turn for the worst.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In this chapter, things get really long (giggity), Bakura redefines the meaning of 'tsundere', and Marik has a very rational response to being cockblocked. So, nothing special really.

There was silence as Bakura sat in the hospital bed, scowling as the nurse dabbed his cuts with antiseptic. Marik was seated in a chair opposite of him, legs crossed as he watched. It had taken a lot of convincing to get the doctors to let Marik in the room with him; they were clearly unnerved by his appearance. Bakura himself had been regarded with a bit of suspicion as well, but he just had to throw on the Ryou faced and they'd admitted him just to ensure he wasn't severely injured.

The car hadn't been totaled, but it would take a day or two to repair the damage to the engine, which was overheated. Bakura followed the light being shone in his eyes vaguely enough to get them to leave him alone, which turned out to be a moot point when they found the stab wound. It was healed over enough that they only had to do a bit of stitching and re-bandaging, but the second that the nurse left the room, Bakura was on his feet and getting dressed.

"The last thing we need is the police getting involved with this," he hissed quietly as he slung the Millennium Ring around his neck again. "Especially if it means potentially losing the Rod."  
"You shouldn't have been so stabbable," Marik replied with a snicker, standing up and swishing his cloak with an unnecessary flourish.  
"Shut up." He held up a finger at Marik and poked his head out of the door. The nurse that had been attending to him was nowhere in sight, so he gave a signal to proceed, and they made their way to the front entrance.

In the next town over, which they had fled to with some good old mind control-induced hitchhiking, Bakura leaned over the counter of the inn to grab the attendant by the collar. "What do you mean, you only have one single room available?"  
"I am sorry," he stammered in heavily-accented English. "But it is a popular vacation time. We are very full right now!"  
"C'mon, Bakura," Marik drawled lazily as he stared up at the overhead lights that were most likely installed as an attempt to look classy, turning in a vague circle as though getting a good 3D image of them in his head. "Don't you want to be bunk mates?"

Bakura glanced over his shoulder for a moment before tightening his grip on the attendant's shirt. "If I have to stay in the same room as that man, someone will die," he growled, eyes unnaturally dark.  
"Is nothing I can do!" Bakura stared for a long moment before dropping the man, mumbling under his breath before finally coming to his decision.  
"Fine. We'll take it."

Luckily, their luggage had been taken out of the car and left in the hospital for them to take when they were discharged, so they still had all of their things to their disposal. As soon as the door closed behind them and Bakura made his way to the bathroom to drop off his bag, Marik had started stripping, shaking his head like a dog out of water. "Think he'll call the police?"

"If he does, we'll take care of it," came the curt reply as the bathroom door slammed shut.

Quickly and loosely tying his hair back once he'd combed out the snags, Bakura began to think that he never should have agreed to this. He'd had a perfect plan, and the only reason he was here was because of the promise of gaining the Millennium Rod. But he had a sneaking suspicion that Marik wouldn't be as willing to give it up now.

With a sigh, he stood and began to undress, loosely folding his shirt before tossing it into his bag and unclasping his belt. He lingered his hands on the zipper of his jeans before deciding against taking them off. He'd certainly left Ryou to sleep in more uncomfortable things.

He heard muffled Arabic through the door, and opened it to find Marik bent in front of the TV, eyebrows furrowed as he manually clicked through the channels for... something to capture his attention. Again, Bakura found his eyes drawn to the carvings on his back, then leaned slightly to let his gaze drift lower. Marik slept in his underwear, apparently, as he was only clad in briefs yet again, leaving almost his entire body exposed to the open air. And if it was there, there was nothing wrong with checking it over, right? Bakura nodded to himself, pleased with this justification.

He was buff. Not extremely so, since it probably wasn't easy to keep in shape when you lived underground your whole life, which made the perfect shape of his ass baffling and, admittedly, a little enviable. Bakura didn't bother to shift his gaze as he idly said, "I get the bed. You're on the floor tonight."

Marik snorted, offering just a shift of his head in Bakura's direction as he crouched down, apparently deciding he was going to be situated in front of the television for a little while longer. "Says who?"  
"Says me."  
Bakura tore his gaze away a split second after Marik turned to him, face completely nonchalant. The brief lift of the corner of Marik's mouth told him he'd been caught. "And you're the boss, right?"

"As far as you're concerned. I did all the driving, I'll be damned if I let myself sleep on this excuse of a carpet." He made a start for the bed, but stopped when Marik took a subtle step at the same time. His eyes narrowed, and he leaned forward, Marik echoing his movements with a predatory smirk that was growing wider. "...So this is how you want to do this, then."

They made a dash at the exact same time, and Marik intercepted Bakura, tackling him onto the mattress, a tangle of contrasting limbs and Bakura swearing at the top of his lungs, eventually earning a massive 'bang!' on the wall from another room. They paused; Marik pinning Bakura to the bed with a solid grip on his hair, and Bakura with a leg wrapped around Marik's waist and a knee about to drive into his stomach.

They stared at the wall, heard an irritated female voice loudly cursing them on the other side, before looking back to each other. The laughter came from Marik first, a deep rumbling chuckle brewing in his chest, and Bakura was momentarily loathe to find himself following. And soon they were both cackling like hyenas, bodies pressed against each other in laughter that only faded as their lips met.

It was the ultimate delayed reaction for Bakura, whose chuckles faded slowly once he realized the sound was being muffled, eyes widened just slightly with each passing second.

And he surged forward, taking his own grip in Marik's hair and fiercely accepting the challenge presented before him. He let himself be lifted up as Marik re-positioned with a grunt, taking a hold of Bakura's thigh to lift his leg a little higher and grind his hips forward, diving his tongue forward to entwine with Bakura's.

It was only with the thought that he was very,  _very_  good with his tongue that Bakura realized what was happening, and pulled back to punch Marik in the face.

He went careening to the floor while Bakura covered his mouth, grimacing at the shooting pain in his tongue where Marik had instinctively bit down. Bakura sat up, watching the tomb keeper sit back up to grin at him, licking the blood from his own lips. "I get the bed," Bakura hissed again.

He didn't sleep for a long time, instead watching the crumpled cloak that Marik was using as a blanket rise and fall with his breaths once he'd finally decided to stop goading Bakura and actually sleep. What the hell was wrong with him? He was better than this stab-crazy man-child sleeping on the floor. Better than  _all_  of this. So what if Marik had a certain beauty to him, if his eagerness with a knife was charming and exciting and he had excellent control of his tongue –  
Bakura shuddered underneath his blankets and curled in on himself more. No, none of that. In the morning, he'd demand they turn around, since this mission was turning out to be a colossal waste of time. And then he would figure out how to get Marik back, the main one.

He blinked, and it was daylight. For once, his dreams had been free of imagery of a life not his own. The first thing he noticed was that Marik was still asleep, wrapped up in his cloak. Which was rather concerning, as he could very clearly hear the water of the shower running in the bathroom.

He tried to run his hand through his hair but found it in a bit of a matted mess – he'd forgotten to take the elastic out of his hair before he'd fallen asleep. He quickly untangled his hair, wrapping the elastic around his wrist while he knelt down on the floor. The cloak wasn't moving. "Son of a bitch." Bakura took a deep breath and reached forward to lift the cloak, just to see who was underneath it.

It was a woman, very clearly dead. Bakura lifted the cloak more to reveal the giant laceration across her throat, and then the excessive amount of stab wounds that had practically conglomerated into one massive one all over her chest. "Dammit, Marik -"  
The door to the bathroom opened, and Marik's voice replied, "Yes?"

Bakura glanced upwards and dropped the cloak with a small shout. Marik was completely naked, water still glistening off of his biceps while he casually ran a towel over his hair. "I see you've met my friend. She isn't having a very good day."  
"Marik," Bakura hissed, holding his hand out as an improvised censor bar. "I knew this was going to happen sooner or later."  
"What, that you'd see me naked? I'd hoped it was going to be sooner, but -"  
"Shut the hell up, bastard. I meant  _this_." Bakura gestured to the dead body at his feet. "Who was she?"

Marik shrugged, wandering over to the heap of clothes he'd left at the foot of the bed. "The lady from last night. She kept banging on the walls, remember?" Bakura groaned and dragged a hand down his face, opening his eyes again just in time to get a clear view of Marik's ass as he bent over to put his underwear on. Oh good god, it was even more shapely than he'd remembered. "You might need to help me dump her somewhere."

Bakura had been in the midst of trying to keep from biting his lip out of wanting reflex, and that managed to snap him out of his awe-struck stupor. "What?! Hell no, Marik, she's your problem." With that, he slipped past Marik to occupy the bathroom for himself.

The sunburn he'd gotten the few days prior was evening out, and Bakura was a little surprised to see it was shifting into a tan. He wasn't aware that Ryou even  _could_  tan; he'd always assumed Ryou was that kind of pale that would just burn and then burn on top of that. He regarded himself with an eye, regretting the t-shirt-shaped outline of white left from his clothes before he shook his head and moved on to what he had come to do in the first place.

Marik had used most of the hot water. Bakura was completely fine with this, and scrubbed shampoo into his hair until it squeaked just to keep his hands occupied. There were still tinges of pink on the tiles, blood that had fallen off of Marik and evaded being washed away with the water.  
And as he rinsed his hair thoroughly, the water turning colder by the second, he finally admitted to himself that the image of blood dripping off of Marik's skin and into the water was quite a sexy thought.  
When he exited the bathroom, one towel wrapped around his waist and another being used to squeeze water out of his hair, Marik and the body were gone. He took his leisurely time getting dressed again, and when Marik still hadn't returned, Bakura sighed and ventured outside.

Miraculously, Marik had managed to bring her out of the room, still wrapped in his cloak, and down to the dumpster behind the inn without being seen – or so it had seemed, anyway. Bakura leaned against the wall and watched Marik heave the body into the dumpster, unraveling the cloak around it to let it thump unceremoniously into heaps of garbage.

"We need to go back to the tombs," he finally said as Marik stared at his cloak with a frown. "At this rate, we'll never be able to get to the Pharaoh." He shrugged to himself, looking back to the road and squinting as the breeze brought a nice, cool reprieve across his skin. "So we steal another car and go back. We should get there within a couple of days, if we're lucky."

Marik scoffed, finally looking back up as he bundled up his cloak and tucked it under his arm. "You give up that easily?"  
"I give up when it's a lost cause," Bakura snapped back, glancing at Marik from over his shoulder as he crossed his arms. "Which, although it was at least mildly entertaining, I would consider this to be. Besides, it's hard to reconcile continuing without issues when you just  _murdered_  someone."  
"Her voice was annoying. And I needed to vent. I tend to feel creative when I get stabby."

Bakura paused at that. Really, it had been a massacre with only a single weapon, which was quite impressive. "I noticed," he muttered begrudgingly, ignoring the return of the smile on Marik's face. "Regardless, our first step has to be transportation."  
Marik flipped the Millennium Rod between his fingers, raising an eyebrow pointedly. "That'll work."


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bakura finally takes the stick out of his ass for a night, and Marik REALLY likes being on the other end of the Millennium Rod's dagger. This one's NSFW, featuring knife-induced violence, lots of blood, and sexings. Giggity.

Bakura never thought he'd be happy to be back on the road. They'd managed to grab something a little more practical for the desert this time: a Jeep. And now they were cruising, continuing onward towards Cairo as originally planned. In the end, it would have been a shame to get this far and not go all the way, especially with promises of stabbing the Pharaoh until he resembled a pincushion.

Marik had his head stuck out of the window, grinning and shaking out his hair in the wind while the radio finally managed to gain access to a station for the moment and played some upbeat music. Bakura was actually driving with some semblance of a smile today, one arm resting in the window.

Marik pulled himself back into the Jeep, giving his head one last shake before he sighed, leaning back against the seat. “How much longer?”  
"Just a few hours, if we're lucky.” Bakura kicked down the speed a bit, but not nearly as much as he had the other day; he didn't want to repeat his mistakes. “And you need to finish your thought from the other day.”  
“Hm?”  
“When I asked about you possibly up and disappearing yesterday.”  
“Before you crashed the car, you mean?” Bakura snorted derisively, earning a small chuckle. “I was just going to say you had nothing to worry about. I'll be here as long as I want. And I know you'd miss my company if I left now.”  
“Oh yes, I'd be heartbroken to be free of my murderous manchild companion,” Bakura said, ducking as Marik swung the Rod towards his face lazily.

The radio went out about an hour onto the road, but as their cassette collection had still been in the convertible, they were left with silence. As the sun began to set and there was no road signs in sight, Bakura sighed and flipped on the headlights, steeling himself for some overnight driving.

"What is it you mumble about when you sleep?”

The question came out of nowhere, and it took Bakura a bit off-guard, glancing at Marik out of the corner of his eye. “What?”  
“You mumble. Sounds like apologies, mostly.”  
Bakura pursed his lips slightly, wishing that there'd be a sign for some run-down shack of a motel so that he could skip this conversation. No such luck. “I don't know.”  
“You told Marik you've been around for centuries.”  
“Millennia, actually. That doesn't mean I remember every single thing that's happened.”

 Marik shrugged, slouching down in his seat and turning his head, eyes closing. “Just doesn't sound right, hearing you like that.” Bakura waited for some other personally invasive question to spout forward, but there was only silence. Another quick glance showed Marik had fallen asleep. Wonderful.

The world outside was quiet, but Bakura's mind was not for the last few miles, city lights flickering in the distance. He _hated_ thinking about his dreams, about the fire and smoke and screams. It was past, a vague memory that reminded him why he was doing all of this. But the sound of a child's sobs were new, an addition that had only presented itself after he had sealed a part of himself into the Puzzle, and it was _infuriating_. Mostly because he couldn't figure out what it meant, although some deep part of him knew.

 “Tch.” Bakura slowly pressed on the brakes as they finally hit the city limits of Cairo. From there, it was a simple matter of finding the airport and whatever shelter for the night was nearby.

 Marik stirred at his side as they pulled into the hotel connected to the airport, rubbing his eyes and smearing the kohl that lined them, and Bakura was surprised to see a glimmer of the real Marik in there, a gaze like a child that had been stirred by a change in momentum. But then the alternate Marik was back, and he stretched with a groan. “Finally, eh?”  
"One more night, and then we'll see if this plan of yours was worth the trip.”

As fate would have it, they were once again stuck into a single room, but this one came with the luxury of a pull-out couch. Marik stormed the bathroom immediately, leaving Bakura to undress in the main room while idly watching the news broadcast. He couldn't understand the words, but the images of the last hotel they'd stayed at and footage of an all-too-familiar dumpster told to story clearly enough.  
With a groan, he fell backwards onto the bed, arms spread to his sides as his eyes closed.

When he next came to, he felt breath on his neck again. He must have tensed, because a hand pressed firmly on his chest before sliding down, fingers circling the scars that the Millennium Ring had imprinted upon him. “Marik...” he warned quietly as he opened his eyes just enough to see the outline of the tomb keeper's hair in the dim light. The room's lighting had all been turned off.  
“What? I'm checking you for sand fleas.” It sounded like a line delivered straight from a bad porno, complete with a low and suggestive tone of voice. “You need to relax.”  
“I don't have time for this.” Bakura tried to move, but his eyes widened slightly as something sharp pressed against his side again. “Marik.” 

Marik pulled away, eyes coldly regarding him for a moment before he slid backwards, kneeling at the foot of the bed. The Rod went with him, dragging lightly along the side of Bakura's entire body from the chest down and leaving him shivering. Then, he lifted the Rod... and flipped it, facing the dagger towards himself and holding the other end out towards Bakura. “So cut me.”

Bakura sat up, propping himself on his elbows as he blinked down at Marik. “What.”  
"Cut me. I had my chance, but you need some fun.” He nudged the Rod in Bakura's direction. “And it _will_ be fun.” Bakura paused, trying to think of the ways this would be a trick. But there was only one way to know for certain. Slowly, he reached for the Rod, wrapped his fingers around it, and slipped it out of Marik's fingers.

Nothing happened. Marik slid backwards more, face lowered but eyes lifted to watch as Bakura stood up, examining the Rod carefully. The dagger was sharp, and the Rod itself was blank in his hands. No issue there; this was temporary, yes, but it felt good to hold a weapon again. He allowed a small smile of his own.

The first lash was quick, drawing across Marik's cheek with enough force to send him reeling for a moment. But it was a light cut, a test, and as Marik looked forward again and licked away the blood trickling down his face, another swing left a gash along Marik's collarbone, digging deep into his flesh. He gasped, shuddering as his eyes rolled back into his head. Another cut across his abdomen was accompanied by a light chuckle at his groan of pain, and he knew Bakura was smiling.

The way Bakura handled the dagger should have been illegal; to compare him to an artist with a paintbrush was an insult to the way the blade curved around Marik's biceps, up his shoulders, along his stomach. The more he cut, the more he laughed, and his laugh was strangely beautiful.

Bakura knelt down in front of him and, after a moment of contemplatively tapping the Rod against his lips, stabbed the blade into his shoulder until it couldn't go any further. Marik's vision practically went white, and he couldn't contain himself when Bakura pressed his thumb against the cut on his cheek to draw out more trickles of blood down his face. “Ngh – _god_! Mm.”

Bakura simply watched Marik for a long moment, both intrigued and baffled. He actually _liked_ the pain. _Perhaps a little_ too _much_ , he thought to himself as he glanced downward for just a moment and saw a very distinct outline in his briefs. “Well, that's a surprise.”

Marik just grunted, arching his back and leaning forward in a desperate stupor. Bakura hummed quietly to himself as he slowly started to twist the Millennium Rod in Marik's shoulder, contemplating the situation even as the sounds coming from the boy in front of him traversed into moaning territory. On the one hand, he was more than happy to vent his frustrations this way, slashing Marik to ribbons until they were both satisfied. But on the other...

He remembered Marik's curves, his toned body and muscles and the ungodly perfection that was his ass and the way those eyes had looked at him the past few days, were looking at him now. He had Marik right there, panting and wounded and wanting.

He pulled the Rod, Marik grunting in effort as he was lurched forward, the carpet stinging his knees. Bakura tilted his head upwards and kissed him, pressing their lips together with no room to breathe, prying Marik's mouth open to let their tongues meet once more.

And then he bit down.

The response he got was incredible. Marik cried out out of reflex, the sound muffled, and shuddered a gasp, hips twitching up in response. Bakura drew back, licking his lips as he watched Marik struggle against his own sense of self-restraint. “Payback's a bitch.” He grinned and shifted to sit on the foot of the bed, dragging Marik along with him by the Rod still lodged in his shoulder. “But you can make it up to me, right?”

“Only because you have the knife,” Marik murmured before he was shut up by Bakura grabbing the back of his head and shoving it unceremoniously into the fly of his jeans. After another muffled grumble, his mouth went to work against the denim, earning nails digging into the skin of his back as Bakura idly traced the scars of his back with his fingers.

He was actually a little surprised at how quickly his jeans became too tight despite only the vague pressure of a tongue pressing against the denim; he'd been anticipating this more that he'd liked to admit. But he shoved Marik away quickly to fumble with removing them, brushing fingers against the spot that was now damp with saliva as Marik licked his lips.

“Get up here,” he grunted, taking the time to curl a finger in a beckoning gesture before yanking his jeans down. Marik was feeling just helpful enough to pull them the rest of the way when he couldn't reach any further, grunting at the burn of the blade still embedded in his shoulder digging deeper into muscle as he flexed. Any further movement was stalled as Bakura sighed and placed a palm on Marik's forehead, and in another second the Rod was yanked from its resting place in his flesh.

And _then_ , he let himself fall back, dragging his companion down with him and letting their lips meet again, running his hand over the wound and letting thick blood coat his fingers. He had a small urge to punch Marik in the face again as he felt hands sliding underneath him to lift his hips upwards, but Marik's tongue slipping between his lips was just enough to make him reconsider.

The taste of copper entered his mouth, and something about it thrilled him, sending a chill up his spine while he wrapped his legs around Marik's waist. Marik grinded his hips forward slowly, pulling away to start shift his focus onto Bakura's jaw, suckling his way down to his neck and grazing his teeth against the pale flesh underneath him. “Mm, yes,” Bakura sighed, petting Marik's hair against the back of his head encouragingly.

For the first time, every time he closed his eyes, he saw nothing. No flashes of memories, no glimpses of confusion of the boy whose body he was possessing – just blissful darkness. “Hurt me again,” he heard quietly, breathlessly, from before him, and he quickly obliged, pressing his thumb into Marik's shoulder and laughing quietly at the groan he received in response. He felt fingers slipping underneath the waistband of his underwear, and he nodded to himself, lifting his hips juuuuust a little more for the waistband to slip lower down his hips. Frankly, he was surprised Marik didn't just rip them off.

As if spurred by Bakura's thoughts, Marik growled softly and pulled away to start yanking his own briefs down, balling them up and chucking them off into the nether. “Finally,” he muttered, leaning back as he knelt upright and ran his hands through his hair to ruffle it just a bit more. His smirk grew as he followed Bakura's gaze downwards, rolling his hips forward just to help give a teasing peek of his cock in the dim light.

It was enough; Bakura licked his lips and reached down to wrap his blood-covered fingers around it and slowly move his hand upwards. Marik groaned, following the touch with hips and digging his fingers into Bakura's shoulder. Bakura took that as a sign of encouragement and chuckled quietly, brushing his fingers slowly up and down the length – until Marik pulled away and shoved an arm against Bakura's throat.

“Now if you keep going with that,” he said, ignoring the initial choking noises being made underneath him, “this'll be over way too soon.” He leaned back and started to work on Bakura's underwear once more, purposefully brushing over his own erection as he went. Soon, those were discarded as well, and he took a long moment to soak in the view.

There wasn't anything too impressive, aside from the scars of the Millennium Ring; stretched out like this, his ribs were slightly visible through his skin. In the dark, he practically glowed with just how pale he was, even with the mild tan that the past few days had brought him. Marik made a noise of thought and took Bakura's wrist, holding up his blood-covered hand. “Do you think blood makes good lube?”

“Hell no,” Bakura responded curtly, wresting his hand away. “Stick with spit, killer.”  
“Mm, you got me all bloody already, though.”  
“Go wash it off, I can wait ten seconds.”  
Marik rolled his eyes, groaning like a teenager who'd just been told to go to his room before getting up, making a show of lifting his leg from Bakura's side to stand. Bakura was pretty sure his heart skipped a beat, but his attention was soon drawn to his rather messy hand. He lifted it to his face, and glanced up as Marik re-emerged from the bathroom just in time to curl his own tongue around a finger to clean it before the light was turned off. 

“Tease,” was the last thing he heard before he was submerged in darkness once more, and Marik pounced.

Despite himself, he cried out as their cocks brushed together, arching slightly out of reflex of the touch just before Marik flipped him over onto his knees. He couldn't remember the last time he'd allowed himself to indulge in sex of any sort. _Once every century's fine with me_ , he thought to himself just before two wet fingers pressed against his ass – and then into it.  
“ _Oh_ –“ It was a surprisingly vulnerable sound, one he wouldn't allow himself to make again if he could help it. Or, at the very most, after tonight. He bit his lip and wiggled against Marik's fingers as they pressed just a little deeper before slipping out again.  
“Keep hurting,” Marik said breathlessly before taking hold of Bakura's legs and pressing his hips forward, entering him properly.

It was Bakura's turn to go cross-eyed, absently reaching back to dig his fingers into Marik's thigh as hard as he could bring himself to, but... “ _Mmn_ , it's hard from this angle.”  
“Yeah it is.” Okay, for _that_ , Bakura got enough control of himself to roughly slap at Marik, the sound sharp and excessively loud in his ears as his hand connected to Marik's haunch. However, it slightly backfired in that it simply just made Marik buck his hips forward roughly, and he chuckled at the short cry that came out of Bakura in response. “Were you trying to say something?”  
“Shut up and fuck me, you – ASS!”

Marik had unceremoniously thrust forward, enough so for it to burn and to earn some bright red crescent marks being embedded into Marik's thigh as Bakura's fingers dug in. “Fuck!”  
“I'm gonna count how many times you say that.” He thrusted forward again, sliding his hands down Bakura's back and admiring the contrast. Any further taunting was momentarily stifled by the quiet moan that Bakura had tried to hold in and failed. “The big bad Ring spirit can admit he likes this, you know.”

“Make me,” Bakura mumbled, snickering quietly to himself as he realized that was exactly what Marik was going to do. He had realized that, too, if the delighted chuckle behind him was any indication.

Surprisingly, Marik moved at a rational pace at first, thrusting forward little by little – Bakura was pretty sure the main motivation was to hear the little sounds that came unbidden from him. Of course, that amount of care flew right out the window the second Bakura started to shift his hips backwards to meet each thrust, because once he did, Marik shoved his head down onto the mattress.  
“Fucker!” Bakura yelled, clawing at the sheets at the sudden change of position, and the quickening change of pace that followed.  
“Three!”  
“That one doesn't count!”  
“Totally does.” 

And for once, Bakura didn't have another snippy retort prepared; instead, he found himself chuckling delightedly. The banter, the sounds Marik made each time he had to use his injured shoulder to keep Bakura down, the delicious little tingles that shot up his spine each time Marik hit a particularly sweet spot – dammit, he wasn't completely hating this.

“Four.”  
“I didn't even – ngh – say anything – ah god!”  
“Yeah you did, you were mumbling again.”  
“Ff – uuh.” He didn't bother completing that thought, although he knew that Marik was counting it as a fifth. But he didn't really care, because his vision was starting to go white and it was getting more and more bothersome to think.

Marik had reached his hand around to wrap his fingers around Bakura's cock without him realizing it, and with one pull, he lost any sense of composure he had left. He bit into the comforter to in the hopes it would muffle the sounds he made as he came, some strange mixture of growls and moans that made his throat tingle. It didn't.

Thankfully, it went unnoticed, because just moments later, Marik leaned forward to bury his face in Bakura's shoulder blade, groaning quietly as he followed into climax. Bakura was sure he would be getting teeth digging into his skin and took a sharp, preparatory breath... but he softly released it when all he got was lips pressed against his back instead.

“What the hell was that?” he finally asked with a weak chuckle after a moment of slowing breaths and recuperation.  
“Eh. Red doesn't look as good on your skin as it does mine.” Marik licked his shoulder, laughing at the quiet sound of disgust it earned him before he abruptly pulled out and flopped sidewise onto his back.  
“How thoughtful of you. I'll cherish that moment fondly.” Bakura rolled onto his side slowly and poked his finger lightly into the stab wound on Marik's shoulder, allowing a strangely fond smile on his face at the groan of pain he got in return.

Then came the dreaded awkward silence. He could only stand it for roughly half of a minute before he sat up and carefully shuffled his way to the bathroom. And as he stared into his bed-mussed hair, washing blood off of his hands, his only thought was ' _Dear gods below, what did I just do?'_


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alas, every road trip has its end, and nothing good ever lasts. It was a nice thought.

Marik was rummaging through Bakura's bags, unaware that the spirit had quietly re-emerged from the bathroom and was watching him coldly. He'd spent the last three and a half minutes contemplating what kind of moment of weakness would have allowed him to sleep with _that_. Eventually, he had settled on the good excuse of “Why not?” It wasn't as though it hadn't been enjoyable, anyway.

“Dammit!” Marik had looked back to see Bakura giving him an evil eye, complete with the vague imagination of ominous chanting in his head, and fallen to land flat on his ass in surprise. “Ugh – 'Kura, you look so _menacing_.”  
Bakura shrugged, pushing himself away from the wall to start his approach, taking a very slow pace just to add to the 'menacing' factor. “I don't even have to try most of the time. Why are you snooping?”  
“I, uh...” Marik rolled his head toward his injured shoulder. “Was lookin' for bandages. Unless you want me to bleed all over everything you hold dear.”

Bakura smiled coyly, crossing his arms over his chest. “I don't know. I _do_ enjoy watching people bleed because of me.”  
Marik licked his lips and stood, stretching his arms above his head to exhibit the fact that, yes, he was still completely nude. “Aw. You're cute when you're sadistic.”  
“Mm.” Bakura was finally at a distance where he could clap a hand on Marik's shoulder, nodding his head back. “I'll find the bandages. Go take a shower, you look like shit.”

Marik leaned forward and pecked a kiss on his nose before slipping away to do just that, leaving Bakura momentarily baffled. What was that all about? He shook his head and knelt down before his bags, shuffling through them for a moment before he found the bandages. Ryou had an unfortunate habit of being injured whenever he blacked out, after all.

He set them on the dresser and parted the curtains over the window, taking in the view of Cairo at night. The air was sweet and smoky, but also arid enough that he had to pull himself away before his nose dried out enough to start bleeding. And as he crawled into the bed, taking note of the giant smear of blood in the vague shape of a hand on the sheets, he felt comfortably exhausted, drifting off into a pleasant sleep.

“Bakura!”

He opened his eyes with a grimace; the curtains were pulled wide open, revealing a rising sun shining in the window, and Marik was glaring down at him. Although...

“Would you care to inform me what the hell happened these last few days?”

Bakura forced himself to sit up with a groan, peering at Marik curiously. He looked normal again, aside from the absolutely livid expression on his face. “What do you mean?”  
“For starters...” Marik lifted his arm to gesture at the massive bandage over his shoulder – the shoulder Bakura had stabbed the night before. “How, exactly, did I get _stabbed_? And where are we, pray tell?”  
Bakura peered at Marik very closely, eyes drifting across the cuts on his cheek and collarbone with a certain reminiscence. “You don't remember anything?”  
“What _should_ I be remembering?” In light of Bakura's silence, Marik sighed and waved his hand. “Forget it. You can tell me back at base, once I get a hold of one of my Ghouls.”

Bakura just stared at Marik's back. Just like that, so close to ending everything once and for all, and it was gone. With a deep breath, he finally got himself to move, standing to get himself presentable while Marik punched in a number on the phone and drummed his fingers against the drawer.

Ultimately, Bakura made no mention to Marik about the masochistic ball of murder that was his alternate personality, instead giving him some story about the clerk of the gas station having some friends that didn't take kindly to their argument, and Marik had been sent to Cairo for the injuries they had sustained in the ensuing fight.

Marik sighed, leaning forward on the table and rubbing his healing shoulder. “And the hotel?”  
“By the time you were discharged, it was too late to try and come back, so we decided to stay the night.”  
“A concussion would explain this headache. And why I don't remember.” He paused thoughtfully, finger brushing against the cards of his Duel Monsters deck. “But we should continue as planned. It's about time to make our move against the Pharaoh.”  
Bakura leaned back in his chair, arms and legs crossed. “About _damn_ time, Marik. I thought you'd never pull through.”  
Marik stood, leaning forward on the table with his eyes narrowed. “Yet despite all your complaints, you haven't thought to just _leave_. So shut up.”

They stared at each other for a long moment, Marik's eyes harsh much like a young lion making a challenge for dominance against an alpha. Meanwhile, Bakura was cold, secretly searching those eyes for any sign of the turbulence underneath. Eventually, he gave up and scoffed, almost knocking the chair over as he stood and stalked away towards his room.

A familiar quiet overtook the tombs, the faint murmur of conversation echoing from a distant room as Bakura lay awake, the noise disturbing in light of the quiet that the past few nights had brought him.

When the noise subsided, he quietly left his bed.

If there was one advantage to having Ryou as a host, it was the fact that the kid never seemed to gain weight. The patter of his bare feet against the ground barely resonated through the halls. He'd always found the ability to be a metaphorical shadow rather fitting.

And he became a literal shadow as he stood in Marik's doorway, absently watching Marik toss and turn and mumble to himself. He had never noticed before how fitful his sleep was; the other Marik barely moved during the night. Carefully, Bakura stepped over the line between the hallway and Marik's room.

His attention was drawn to the Millennium Rod, laying on the dresser nearby. He took another step; Marik sighed in his sleep, but didn't make any other movements. Despite his uneasiness, he seemed to be a rather sound sleeper, and Bakura made his way to the dresser and carefully picked up the Rod.

It dawned on him then that there was nothing keeping him from simply... leaving. He had the Millennium Rod right now, and he could easily just go back up to the surface, hop in that Jeep they had decided to keep for themselves, and be long gone by morning –

“What do you think you're doing with that?”

Bakura's train of thought was interrupted by an arm wrapping around his neck and squeezing. Bakura reached up to claw at the arm, but that was rather hard when he was trying to maintain his grip on the Rod. He swung his elbow back and hit something solid, loosening the grip around his neck for a moment just enough for him to slip away and spin around, pulling the bottom of the Rod away to point the dagger at his assailant.

Marik stood up straight again, his scowl twitching upwards into a crooked smile for just a moment – one he recognized. “Didn't anyone teach you not to touch things that aren't yours, 'Kura?”

Bakura breathed a sigh, lowering the Rod and running his hand through his hair. “I'm a thief. What do _you_ think?”  
“I think – ugh.” Marik had taken a step forward, but stopped to hold his head, grimacing slightly. “That you're too stubborn for your own good.”  
Bakura raised an eyebrow and leaned against the dresser, flipping the Rod between his fingers. “Guilty as charged.”

Marik leaned forward as he resumed his approach, resting his hands on the dresser on either side of Bakura so they were face to face. “You should give it back.”  
Bakura scowled and placed the tip of the dagger underneath Marik's chin. “And why would I do that?”  
“Because you know I'm not an person you want to make an enemy of. And I still need that.” Marik stepped away, clutching his head again with another grunt, hissing through clenched teeth for a good long moment. “Either way. I can't... ugh. I can't hold on much longer. Main personality doesn't know about me; I'd like to keep it that way. Make your choice.”

Bakura glanced down to the Rod, admiring the golden gleam in the light of the hallway. He had no issues with the repercussions that simply taking it now would bring; he was well aware this Marik could kill him, _would_ kill him. He didn't fear death, but to die _now_ , when he was closer than he'd ever been in thousands and thousands of years...

He carefully and quietly put the Rod down, and slipped out the door like the shadow he was just as Marik – the original Marik – opened his eyes, jolting up in his bed to scan the darkness for the presence he had felt.

Like it or not, Bakura needed Marik's resources. And if he had to put up with this grating pace of inaction, then he would. Either way, he _would_ complete his mission. He had to.

And weeks later, after a defeat he did not accept lightly, Bakura opened his eyes from a coma to a blank-eyed Anzu staring down at him. And when she spoke, there was something deeper underneath. “Bakura, I need your help.”


End file.
